Hiding the truth had never been enough for Ciri. She knew the mystery behind the killings went beyond simple monster hunts. Something greater—something cold and intelligent—was moving in the shadows, using innocent lives as part of a deeper design. Walking behind the scenes wasn't enough anymore. She needed answers, no matter what it cost.
An hour passed as she waited, motionless, behind the stable. The low whistling of the wind took over the silence, carrying with it the scent of steel. A corrupted sword lay half-buried in the dirt, but even that wasn't the end of the puzzle. Too many footprints overlapped, circling the area like ghosts. She hesitated only a moment before peering out from her hiding place.
That was when she heard it—steel slicing the air.
A long blade came crashing down beside her, close enough to rip through the edge of her cloak. Instinct dropped her to her knees. She rolled aside across the courtyard stones, dodging the deadly arc by a heartbeat. As she rose, she caught sight of the attacker's weapon.
Fresh blood dripped from the sword.
But it wasn't only blood—
the liquid shimmered with something darker, something venomous.
The venomous shine on the blade made Ciri's stomach tighten. Whoever wielded that sword wasn't just a murderer—they were hunting her.
The figure stepped into the faint light. A hood, soaked from the night mist. A mask of iron plates. No breath. No sound.
**Not human. Not fully.**
The assassin lunged again.
Ciri twisted sideways, her boot sliding across the dirt. The blade grazed her shoulder, burning like fire though it hadn't even cut skin.
*Poisoned aura… great,* she thought.
She drew her own sword in one swift motion. The familiar hum of the steel steadied her heartbeat. The attacker charged with unnatural speed—too fast. Ciri barely raised her guard before the two swords clashed. Sparks burst into the air like tiny fireflies.
The masked creature pressed forward, strength far beyond a man's. Ciri's boots dug into the ground as she blocked, her arms trembling from the force. She dropped her weight, slid under the creature's guard, and kicked its knee.
A sound—metal cracking.
The assassin stumbled.
Ciri rose with a sharp spin and slashed across its arm. Black liquid hissed out, smoking as it hit the ground.
Not blood.
The creature didn't scream. It didn't even react. It simply tilted its head slowly, studying her like a puzzle.
"Great," Ciri muttered. "One of those."
It came at her again—this time with a whirlwind of inhuman strikes. Ciri parried one, dodged two, but the third skimmed her cheek. A thin line of heat. Blood.
She jumped back, breathing hard.
Then she saw it—
a faint green glow pulsing under the assassin's armor, right at the chest.
A weak point.
Ciri tightened her grip on her sword.
"Alright then…" she whispered.
"Let's finish this."
She rushed forward, faking high, then rolling low. The assassin swung wildly, missing her by inches. Ciri drove her blade upward, aiming straight for the glowing mark.
Steel met flesh—if it was flesh at all—and a shudder ran through the creature. A burst of green light erupted from its body, throwing Ciri back onto the dirt.
The assassin staggered… collapsed… twitched—
Then went still.
The wind returned, howling through the courtyard.
Ciri rose, wiping blood from her cheek. But before she could catch her breath, she noticed something wrong.
The body was dissolving.
Turning to ash.
And in the ashes, something small remained—
a sigil, glowing faintly, shaped like a claw wrapped around a human heart.
Ciri's eyes widened.
She'd seen that symbol before.
And it meant the truth was much darker than she imagined.
Great — here is **the next scene**, picking up right after Ciri finds the glowing sigil in the ashes.
---
The courtyard was silent again, except for the whisper of ash scattering across the stones. Ciri crouched, eyes fixed on the sigil. It pulsed with a faint green fire, almost alive. When she reached for it, her fingertips tingled as if the object were reading her.
A low crackle spread through the air.
Then a voice.
Not spoken.
Not heard.
*Felt*—deep in her mind.
**"You were expected."**
Ciri froze. Her hand hovered above the sigil.
The ash around it shifted suddenly, swirling into a thin spiral like smoke gathering into a shape. She stepped back, tightening her grip on her sword.
For a moment, the smoke solidified into the outline of a face—sharp, distorted, barely human. Its eyes burned the same green as the sigil.
**"You interfere with the Devourer's design,"** the voice whispered.
**"Turn away… or be unmade."**
Ciri didn't move.
The face twisted into something like a smile.
Mocking.
Hungry.
Then the ash collapsed, and the courtyard fell silent once more.
Ciri exhaled slowly.
*Devourer.*
She knew that name. A forbidden legend—something sorceresses whispered about but never discussed openly. A creature believed to feed not on flesh, but on **souls**, manipulating fate to devour entire bloodlines.
And if its symbol was here…
If it was sending assassins…
This wasn't just a series of murders.
Someone was preparing a ritual.
And Ciri was standing right in the middle of it.
She wrapped the sigil in cloth and tucked it into her belt. The moment it touched her side, she felt a faint pulse—like a heartbeat.
She looked toward the dark stables.
Tracks.
She could see them now—fresh ones, leading away from the courtyard. Heavy boots. Not the assassin's.
Someone else had been watching.
Ciri tightened her cloak, raised her hood, and followed the trail into the night.
Whatever waited ahead, she was done hiding.
Here is **Option 3 — a chase scene**, starting immediately as Ciri follows the fresh tracks into the night:
---
### **Chase Scene — Footsteps in the Dark**
The tracks led out of the courtyard and into the narrow lane behind the stables. Ciri moved swift and silent, her boots barely whispering against the cold ground. The night air had thickened—fog rolling in like fingers searching the earth.
The prints were fresh.
Heavy.
Fast.
Whoever she was following knew how to move… but not quietly enough to lose a trained witcher.
Ciri turned the corner—
And heard it.
A faint scrape.
Metal on stone.
She wasn't alone.
Ciri slid behind a broken cart, peeking into the mist. A shadow flitted across the far wall, moving quickly. Too quickly.
She bolted after it.
The figure sensed her and broke into a sprint. Ciri dashed between abandoned crates and through puddles reflecting pale moonlight. The fog swallowed both of them, making every sound sharper—every breath louder.
Ahead, the figure kicked over a stack of barrels, sending them crashing into the path. Ciri leaped over them effortlessly, landing without breaking stride.
"Stop!" she yelled, though she didn't expect obedience.
The shadow turned sharply into a cramped alley. Ciri followed—and nearly ran into a hanging line of clothes. She sliced it away with a quick flick of her sword.
The figure stumbled at the alley's end. Trapped by a tall wooden fence.
Got them.
Ciri closed the distance, sword raised—
just as the figure spun around.
A face she didn't expect.
A young boy—no older than fifteen.
Sweating, terrified, clutching a small metal charm shaped like the same sigil she'd taken.
Before Ciri could speak, the boy raised his trembling hand.
"Don't come closer," he whispered. "They're watching."
Ciri stopped in place. The air around them shifted—cold, unnatural. Her witcher senses flared. The fog thickened again, this time swirling with purpose.
Something else was in the alley.
Something coming.
The boy's eyes widened.
"They followed me," he choked. "I tried to warn you—"
A sharp screech tore through the night, echoing off the walls.
Ciri tightened her grip on her sword.
The chase was over.
The real danger had arrived.